Free The Shadow at Greystone Chase (An Angela Marchmont Mystery Book 10) by Clara Benson Page A

the rooms, one might have supposed that the house was not inhabited, for everything was pristine, with not a thing out of place. Even the chair-cushions were smooth and undented, with no sign that anybody had ever sat in them. How could anyone live in this way, wondered Angela. There was no comfort here at all.
    ‘Along here is the gallery,’ said Mrs. Smith, as they emerged into the hall once more. She opened a door at the far end, and stood back to allow them to enter. ‘As you can see, it is not really a gallery as such, but the light is good and so it was considered a suitable room in which to display the various portraits of the de Lisle family.’
    Angela, who had forgotten her nervousness in her genuine interest to see the house, now felt it all return in a rush, for she had no wish to be suddenly confronted by a portrait of one person in particular. Her heart beat fast and she found herself trying unsuccessfully to think of an excuse not to enter. She need not have worried, however, for a moment’s glance as they went in showed her that his face was not among the paintings here. She breathed a little sigh of relief and kicked herself inwardly for her own weakness.
    ‘Who is this fellow?’ said Freddy with interest. Angela came to join him. The portrait in question was of a man in late middle age, broad of shoulder and imposing of stature. He had a thick head of tawny hair and a beard of the same colour, and he frowned haughtily out at them as though demanding who it was who dared come into his house and look upon him in such a familiar way.
    ‘That is Roger de Lisle,’ said Mrs. Smith. ‘He died about three years ago.’
    ‘Are you sure?’ said Freddy. ‘Did they make quite certain of it before they buried him? He doesn’t look the sort to be felled by anything short of a passing meteor.’
    ‘He was a very hearty man for the most part,’ agreed Mrs. Smith. ‘It was a gastric attack from a bad oyster that carried him off in the end.’
    ‘And this must be his son, the present Mr. de Lisle,’ said Freddy, indicating another portrait. ‘The resemblance is striking, although he doesn’t look as though he’s built on quite the same scale as his father.’
    ‘Yes, that is Mr. Godfrey de Lisle,’ said Mrs. Smith.
    ‘Wasn’t there another son?’ said Freddy. The housekeeper hesitated, and he went on confidentially, ‘We know all about the family scandal from old Gilverson, of course. He wanted to be certain that we didn’t care about that sort of thing before we came to look at the place. It’s all the same to me, but I thought Mother might be a little worried.’
    ‘What’s past is past,’ said Angela, who here felt called upon to say something. ‘I don’t believe in ghosts myself, but if one’s buying a place one likes to know everything beforehand, just so there are no unpleasant surprises afterwards.’
    ‘It must have been a terrible time for the family,’ said Freddy, adopting his most sympathetic manner—the one with which he had induced many a wronged wife to tell far more than she had intended to about her husband’s mysterious disappearance in company with a painted young woman and the week’s takings. ‘And for the servants, too. We never hear much about them in cases such as this, do we? No-one ever considers their feelings, or asks how they can be expected to get on with their work, what with people weeping in corners and the police tramping muddy footprints all over the place.’
    ‘No indeed,’ said Mrs. Smith, sensing a kindred spirit. ‘There are not many people who think about such things, sir. I had not long started here as a housekeeper when it all happened, and I’m sure I needn’t tell you that the household was in an uproar for many weeks afterwards. Many of the men had gone to the Front, of course, and so we were rather short-handed, and for some time it seemed impossible to get anything done without one of the girls having to be comforted. One of the maids